Ever (The Ever Series Book 4)

by C. J. Valles

  I can only wonder if the dystopian would hold the same allure if they were truly to suffer it. They will certainly discover the true cost if those who ruled my world succeed in taking this one. I hope never to know, but perhaps then love would not be held in such contempt. Because it is love that has given me hope that I have never felt before.

  Shifting to the car, which has remained parked two blocks from Wren’s house, I follow Caroline Sullivan’s car ten minutes across the suburbs, farmland to my right and housing tracts to my left. I pull into the parking lot of the shopping center and park, watching as they step out of the car and begin walking toward the store. Again, I am reminded of how normal Wren’s life might be without my interference.

  I am, for lack of a better term, an alien to her. While not from deep space, I am not of her world. My physical form is human, but altogether more durable. However, humanity has, perhaps, impacted me more than I thought possible. No, not humanity. She has changed me.

  Stepping from the car, I walk toward the store, drawn along by Wren’s thoughts. She has parted from her mother and is crossing the store. I shadow her movements, watching from the opposite end of each aisle she crosses as she takes out her phone to call Ashley Stewart. At first, I am relieved that Wren’s friend is utterly absorbed in her own narcissistic reverie relating to Friday evening, and though Wren is suitably congratulatory, eventually Ashley Stewart’s monologue winds down. She abruptly remembers Wren’s hasty exit from the party, and when she asks Wren who drove her home, I watch as Wren closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

  “Ever,” she exhales, opening her eyes.

  My body tightens with awareness at the sound of my name spoken on her lips. A second later, the girl she is speaking with explodes into a tirade that causes Wren to hold the phone away from her ear. Wren exhales again, preparing herself. As she looks up, I shift to the car, maintaining my attention on her conversation.

  “It’s really not like that,” she says softly.

  “Oh, come on. The guy’s a god, and you’re telling me you’re not interested?” Ashley Stewart chastises incredulously.

  “That’s not it. I mean, I like him. A lot. But I don’t think he’s …”

  Wren pauses.

  What can I say? Human? she asks herself silently.

  “I don’t know,” she finishes quietly.

  “He didn’t ask you out?” Ashley Stewart demands in utter confusion.

  “No!” Wren says in exasperation.

  Dinner with a parental chaperone doesn’t count as a date, she adds to herself.

  I close my eyes. Little does she know that dinner with her mother in attendance is as close to a date with her as I will allow myself. Being near her, I tell myself, is enough, and her mother’s presence will, as humans say, keep me honest.

  Honesty. I have never had cause to lie to those I owe my loyalty to. We do not live as a family in the traditional human sense, but they are as close to family as I can claim in this existence. However, as close as we are, our motives have diverged, and they may become my enemies if they see to destroy Wren to protect our secret and end the war.

  Could I blame them for wanting to keep our existence secret? There is plentiful evidence in human popular culture—comic books, in particular. Human artists, those with the breadth of perception to know that what is perceived as different often is perceived as a danger. We will remain on the periphery because there is no alternative.

  And what of the girl? the monster in my mind snarls seductively. How will you keep her alive—and will you put at risk those you are bound to?

  Opening my eyes, I shift to the house on the coast as I follow Wren’s movements through the store. Time is growing short. I need to speak with the others, but more than that, I need see Wren again.

  I need to tell her the truth.

  I walk up the stairs of the house and into the studio. Taking two orbs from a case along the wall, I press the spheres into my palm, feeling the material sear into my flesh as I allow my mind to shape them into what this girl has bestowed upon me—hope after an eternity of darkness and obligation. With one, I create a simple infinity pendant.

  With the other, I shape a ring. Pressing a hidden panel on the wall beside the case, I remove two stones. More resplendent than a perfectly cut diamond from this realm and more iridescent than Earth’s opal—these are the last remaining vestiges of our dimension. Setting them in the ring, I take both pendant and ring and place them in separate boxes.

  They are Wren’s, if she will accept them.

  Her nervous excitement in the ensuing hours is contagious, and more and more these human emotions begin to take root in me, binding me inextricably to this girl. Wren’s heart rate increases rapidly when the doorbell of her house rings.

  Ever! Oh my god!

  I smile, feeling a vicarious thrill of eagerness as I shift to the car I abandoned earlier in the grocery store parking lot. She quickly remembers that the doorbell likely signifies her neighbor’s arrival, not mine. The moment I exit the parking lot, my vehicle’s speed increases. Fortunately, when I reach the two-lane road that will take me to Wren’s house, it is empty. In a matter of minutes, I will be in her presence again, and for once I allow myself to experience happiness rather than regret over this fact.

  Within minutes I have parked two blocks from her house, stepping from the car as Wren’s elderly neighbor questions her about me. A sharp man in his eighties, Jack Hannigan has seen far more of the world than she has, but not nearly as much as I have.

  “And what is this young man’s name?” he asks her.

  “Ever.”

  I see him frown through Wren’s eyes.

  “Everett?” he says, cupping a hand to his ear.

  “Ever,” she says, her heart rate accelerating again.

  “Never heard that one before. You like him, though?”

  “I do,” she says breathlessly, regretfully.

  “Well, then that’s all I need to know. But you tell him he’d better take good care of my girl, or I’ll give him what for.”

  I smile at his protectiveness as Wren’s mother bustles into the kitchen. At exactly seven-thirty, I finally step up to the front door and press the doorbell.

  Oh my god! Wren thinks, frozen by anxiety.

  When her mother begins walking toward the front door, Wren returns to her senses and bursts past Caroline Sullivan in a bid to reach the door first. I brace myself as she nearly loses her balance when her toe catches on the doorjamb. Through her mother’s eyes, I see Wren steady herself.

  “I’ll get it!” I hear her call.

  Caroline Sullivan shakes her head.

  What am I going to do? My little girl is so in love with this boy. He had better not hurt her, or I’ll have his balls.

  Again, I find myself smiling as Wren attempts to slow her breathing and clear her mind. Fortunately for me, she is too agitated to have much success at hiding her thoughts from me.

  Breathe, Wren, breathe.

  That she must remind herself to perform this very instinctive biological function is both amusing and terrifying. How delicate these creatures are. She opens the door, and her lips part as she looks up at me. Suddenly it is as though my very being no longer belongs to me; it belongs to her.

  “Hi,” she whispers almost without volume.

  I have smiled thousands of times before—it is easier to disarm humans with this very rudimentary facial expression. In her presence, however, I am so totally overwhelmed that I achieve only a crooked smile, afraid if I allow myself more than that, I will pull her to me and brush my face in her hair.

  All I want to do is reach out and touch his face—just to see if he’s real, she thinks with abject regret.

  I watch as she presses her fingernails into her palm and steps back, waiting for me to enter the house. Stepping over the threshold, I reach out before I can stop myself and touch her fingers until they relent their punishment on her tiny palm. The sensation that courses through me is almo
st enough to bring me to my knees, and I realize that this girl may very well be my destruction—or I hers.

  “Ever! Welcome!” Caroline Sullivan calls from where she had stopped to observe us.

  Looking away from Wren toward her mother, I smile.

  “Thank you for having me.”

  “Wren, honey, you want to take his jacket?” her mother says, nudging Wren.

  Removing my jacket, I hold it out to her, watching as her hands shake. As Wren walks over and hangs my jacket in the front closet, her mother gestures toward the kitchen.

  “Come on in and meet Jack,” she says.

  I hold out my hand, waiting for Wren to walk ahead of me.

  This is almost worse than when he was aggressively avoiding me, since I felt less vulnerable when I was constantly irritated by his weird behavior.

  I want to touch her again, but it undoubtedly would be interpreted on her part as weird behavior.

  “Ever, this is Jack Hannigan, our neighbor and savior,” Caroline Sullivan says as I step into the kitchen.

  “Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I nod to the older man.

  Their neighbor stands and studies me.

  “Likewise. How do you know my girl Wren?”

  “We share a class in school.”

  While it is truly the only explanation I can give, I feel a sharp stab of regret as Wren’s demeanor changes.

  His explanation is so simple: we’re classmates.

  When I look over at her, she immediately studies the floor.

  “So Ever, you’re a junior like Wren?” her mother asks, demanding my attention.

  Please, Mom. No interrogations, Wren pleads silently.

  “No, I’ll graduate this year.”

  Wren stiffens.

  “Oh, you’re a senior. Wren didn’t tell me that. Do you know where you’re going next year for college?” she asks.

  I look at Wren, who is making every effort not to look at me.

  “I haven’t made a decision yet,” I tell her mother.

  Now I know with absolute certainty that Ever’s time here, as illogical as it always seemed, is coming to an end, Wren thinks.

  I can feel the dread coursing through her, and as wrong as it is, her dismay gives me hope.

  “Honey, you want to help me bring everything to the table?” Caroline Sullivan asks to her daughter.

  With an empty expression, Wren walks to the counter. I follow her, watching as she reaches for bowls on the top shelf.

  Why exactly do we keep things on the higher shelves when neither of us tops five-foot-four? she wonders in exasperation.

  As she begins to turn to retrieve a stepstool from the pantry, I step only inches from her and reach for the dishes. Even when I set the bowls on the counter, she will not look at me.

  “Thanks,” she mutters.

  As her mother reaches into the oven, I realize that one or both of them is going to be injured if I leave them to their own devices.

  “I can help Wren, Mrs. Sullivan.”

  “Ever, it’s Caroline, please. And that’s very nice of you.” A look of horror passes over her face. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

  Smiling, I shake my head, and Caroline exhales, dramatically wiping her brow.

  “Great! Then you can eat the moussaka.”

  I feel Wren’s eyes upon me.

  I’ve never seen him eat food. Not once.

  By the time I turn to face her, Wren is bent forward, looking into the refrigerator.

  “I used to be a vegetarian back in college before I met Wren’s father. He wore me down after a few years with all his barbecue,” Caroline laughs.

  Wren’s eyes dart to her mother.

  Please no more comments about my father.

  No one notices as I take the salad bowls to the table. Finally Wren looks over and watches in shock as I serve the soup, moussaka, and mashed potatoes. She hesitates, wondering whether to offer me a beverage.

  “Water is fine,” I tell her.

  Momentarily panicked, she glances at her mother and elderly neighbor. Smiling, I walk to the table as she pours two glasses of water. She pauses again when she notices me waiting for her at the table. Walking uncertainly toward me, she smiles in embarrassment when I pull out her chair. Caroline winks at her daughter before looking at me as I take a seat.

  “Ever, tell us a little about yourself. Are you from here originally?” she asks.

  I allow myself a small smile at this.

  “No, I’ve moved around quite a bit. My father’s work requires that he travel frequently.”

  Alistair is no more my father than I am his, but his human form happens to appear older than Chasen’s, Audra’s, and my own. We have, over the course of human history, used his appearance to our advantage. I suppose, in some small way, Alistair seeming older may have had some influence on Persephone’s feelings for him when she was still human, given her physical form—frozen now for millennia—looks to be ten years or so older than ours and approximately five years younger than Alistair’s. As such, based simply upon human perceptions, Alistair is a more suitable candidate to serve as the patriarchal figure when necessary.

  “That must be hard on you. Do you have any other family here? Brothers or sisters?” she asks hopefully.

  “A brother and a sister, yes,” I answer truthfully.

  Audra and Chasen are the nearest I have to siblings.

  I wonder if he’s telling the truth—or lying about everything, Wren wonders. How could he be telling the truth?

  Again, I feel a flicker of unease in thinking about Wren meeting my siblings.

  “You should see what a great artist Ever is,” Wren says in an effort to distract her mother. “I was sure Mr. Gideon was going to fail me when I saw his projects in class.”

  “Oh, well I would love to see some of your work, Ever. Wren here won’t show me any of her stuff,” her mother says, reaching to pinch Wren on the arm.

  Wren’s shoulder lifts, and she looks down.

  “Wren is more talented than she gives herself credit for,” I tell her mother.

  Looking up, Wren stares at me. Despite her assumptions to the contrary, I have watched her day after day, if only through the minds of others. Her artistry, while not practiced by any means, has a raw quality that gives me a fascinating glimpse into a part of her mind to which I have no access. I turn to Caroline.

  “Dinner is excellent,” he says. “Thank you again for having me.”

  My compliment about her culinary skills is an empty one—I have no opinion about human sustenance. However, my gratitude for allowing me an evening to be near to her daughter is sincere.

  “Well, you’re very welcome, Ever.”

  When I smile at Caroline, Wren frowns.

  Why, if he’s so capable of being normal now, is he so freaking detached at school? she wonders.

  Mr. Hannigan raises his glass.

  “I’ll second that. This is the best meatloaf I’ve had since Ellie’s.”

  Wren looks down briefly at her uneaten food. She has seen in his mind happier times when his wife of more than sixty years was alive. When she looks up, Caroline’s smile brings her out of her reverie. Finally becoming aware that she has barely touched her meal, Wren takes a bite of the Greek-inspired dish her mother prepared and smiles.

  “It’s really great, Mom.”

  Caroline turns to me.

  “So, Ever, what school’s are you thinking about attending next year?”

  I have “attended” most of the universities across the world. Choosing a handful of schools in the continental United States, a mix of public and private, I offer these as possibilities. In reality, the strongest impulse I have had in my existence in this dimension is to follow her young daughter wherever she chooses to go. However, if I said this now, I am sure polite dinner conversation would end.

  Wren finally begins to consume her meal now that she assumes my attention has left her. The truth is my attention has not left her
since the moment I first saw her. When she finishes her meal, she rises and begins collecting dishes from the table.

  “I can get the dishes. Why don’t you guys go into the living room?”

  She glances at me, eager for the “truth” I have promised to divulge. Despite her internal plea for a few minutes to collect her thoughts, I join her in clearing the table, watching as she fills the sink with hot water and soap. She looks around and wilts.

  Seriously, Mom? Half the dishes in the kitchen are dirty.

  When I return to the table for the remaining dishes, I hear her sharp intake of breath, and for a moment I feel the pain of the blade across her palm. I reach her side in an instant, watching as she pulls her hand from the water. She recoils at the sight of the wound on her hand, her blood dripping steadily into the water below. Reaching down, she gingerly feels around and locates offending blade. She begins to wobble as she contemplates the laceration, which will require stitches if I do nothing. At last she notices me standing beside her.

  “At least I know you’re not a vampire,” she says with a smirk.

  She freezes when I reach out for her wounded hand to cover it with my own. Human cellular structure is easily damaged, but in minor cases like this, also easily restored to its uninjured state. She winces again as I mend the cut before staring up at me when the pain disappears. Caroline walks into the room a moment later.

  “Wren, I’m going to—What happened?!”

  At her mother’s frantic cry, Wren tears her eyes from mine and turns quickly, closing her fingers before her mother sets upon her. Wren shakes her head, trying to calm her mother.

  “I grabbed a knife by accident. It’s not bad. Let me just get a Band-Aid from upstairs.”

  Turning back to the sink, Wren blanches when she sees the blood. Looking up at me once more, she bolts from the room.

  “She’ll be fine, Caroline. It looked worse than it truly was.”

  Caroline smiles, her eyes still filled with worry. For a few moments, she wanders the kitchen, idly collecting dishes.